Shell Snatcher
by Person With Many Aliases
Summary: Peter and Angelica have fun in London.


A/N: I needed one.

* * *

_He never had parents in the first place, so mixing into the wrong crowd seemed easy, nay, inevitable. He was young, it was easy to steal. He was rewarded, but he loved Heroin best of all._

_Floating free, for the shortest while, so he could forget living in a dirtied apartment in the worst of London..._

_He crashed and burned not long after._

_His choking, shaking body, being rushed through white halls..._

_I'm... I'm floating... I'm floating free-_

"_**You hear me, you skinny fuck? You think about goin' to 'eaven, and I'll cut your fuckin' Jacobs off!"**_

**Six times!? In one sitting. Sounds promising, what are we waiting for?**

* * *

**Person With Many Aliases Presents:**

"**Shell Snatcher"**

**A Gunslinger Girl story.**

"**Gunslinger Girl" series property of Yu Aida**

**Original Characters property of author Person With Many Aliases**

* * *

_SIXTH MONTHS LATER_:

Morning rose on Italy, pouring rays over the hills and onto the monastery/rich noble's home/Section Two headquarters.

Mail Day.

Not that Section 2 regularly received anything that could have been classified as mail. The whole of it probably didn't take up any more space than the back of a little scooter, and out of that, any parcel was immediately given the axe. Aside from that, the survivors were meticulously scanned for anything fishy, before it arrived in anybody's hand. It was thus to any girl's great surprise if they ever got anything.

(Claes of course, didn't have to deal with this particular roadblock, given most of her communicative machinations occurred the Internet, though of course, the computer itself was obviously monitored. Not that she cared.)

(On the other side of the spectrum, Treila and Hilshire had some bureaucratic nightmares revolving around the incident presented by Mario's mailed Teddy Bear.)

Angelica was both delighted and surprised at a written letter to her, who's postage appeared to be that from the land of England.

_Hello, Angie._

_Bet you were all worried about what happened back then. I vaguely recall that you were scared stiff, what with the thing with old Boris getting the jump on us. _

_Well, I'm better now. Sorry I couldn't talk to you in a while, but I was busy, still, great to hear from me, right? Man, it feels like so long ago when we met-_

Angelica mentally replied that it was pretty much a long time ago since they had met. Their meeting of course, was a matter of necessity. Angelica's memory wasn't the best, but from what she could recall, it concerned something about Section Two discovering an arms supply to the Pandania radicals. It wasn't so hard to find the domestic source and storage of the guns. But after they found out where the weapons and explosives were coming from, Marco's presence was asked. Draghi had a job for him.

* * *

Marco's face remained straight, but with some near imperceptible twitching. All the while he stood patient in Draghi's office, listening, and now clarifying.

"...Where?"

"London."

"London?"

"London."

"...London?"

"Yes, London!" Draghi scoffed, impatient, "Fish? Chips? Cup of Tea? Bad food, worse weather, Mary Poppins, London!"

"Why me?"

"Because you're available."

Marco shrugged, acceded to his superior, and sighed, "So the arms shipments were coming from England?"

"Yes. Normally, I wouldn't deal with international situations, but someone in London is running guns to the Five Republics, therefore it's our problem, and I want you to get to the source of it, before more guns arrive on our coast."

"Alright... is it just me and Angelica?" Marco grumbled, rubbing his head.

"No, you'll be having support from the locals in London. You know that Britain has their local Welfare Agency as well, right? You'll be teaming up with a Fratello over there."

"Understood..."

* * *

So it was that Angelica and Marco sat in a comfy first class overnight, British Airways carrying them overseas. Marco wasn't too particularly fond of dealing with pressure changes, and a possible whole week drowning in rain and incomprehensible English. As for Angie, she was ecstatic she was seeing the world.

* * *

Heathrow Airport. Cold and Wet, with blathering all over. Outside the exit of the arrivals section, a car sat, waiting for guests. At the driver's seat was a fairly elderly man, dark gray hair becoming light gray, loose face, wide glasses, a heavy set frame, and all wrapped up a casual suit.

A young hand reached through the open window, holding a steaming Styrofoam cup, "Sorry 'bout the tea, Guv'na, but they only got the shit brands around here."

The Guv'na turned to look at the 13 year old boy, a bright blue eyed, blond haired individual, who, like his Handler, wore a nice black blazer and slacks over top, and a clean white buttoned shirt. Over all that, a black leather bomber jacket. The boy ignored the rain that was pelting him and the car he was standing beside.

Regardless of the tea, the older man took the steaming cup, "Good boy, Peter. Get back in there and wait for those Italians, will you?"

"Alright, then."

As Peter turned to go, suddenly his handler called him back, with a tone of slight displeasure, "Hold on boy, get back here."

Peter did, and the Guv'na reached to feel under Peter's jacket and blazer, only to find nothing. That was the problem.

"You mean to tell me we drove us all the way here, and you're not carrying a gun?" Guv'na growled.

Peter shrugged, "It's not like we're up against Ze Germans, we're just picking up some Italians-"

"Shut up, Peter. You're a fuckin' million dollar murder machine. We're in a job in which we can get shanked at any time, and you're telling me you don't have a shooter with you? What the hell are you here for then, just getting my tea? The next time I see you with no piece under your arm, I'll kick your arse. And if you want to be technical about it, in the Second World War, the Axis powers consisted both of Germany _and_ Italy, so shut your trap and think about your comeback before you spew shit out of your mouth. Now get back in there and wait for them."

Peter's face reddened, and he ducked his head, quickly apologizing back a "...R-Right..." before running back into the crowds, whilst manning a sign that said, "Mr. And Ms. Ormanno."

Another half hour passed by. Peter was starting to get bored, watching people meet each other in the arrivals and gush at sights, then run off to the rent-a-cars.

"God damn, this is boring, are them Italians that fucking slow...?" Peter muttered, having since idled his time using his reinforced teeth to rub a toothpick in his mouth raw.

It was then he was beset by a pretty young girl with silky black hair, with a small ribbon in her hair. She had this adorable black dress that, and had this adorable expression on her face, and her adorably holding onto her luggage...

Well, there was the whole thing about her following closely behind this man who looked like a younger (but no less fat) version of his boss. Did that mean...

"Mr. Ormanno and missus, right?"

"That's right... You're from the British Welfare?" The man said, with this huge Italian flair to it. He sounded fairly professional, which meant he probably wasn't enjoying himself. Peter didn't blame while, while he tucked the sign under his arm, where a shooter should have been.

"Yep. Me boss is keepin' the engine warm, so I'll take you to 'im. Name's Peter by the way, but you can call me Susan if it makes ya feel better. Shall I take your luggage for ya?"

Marco, paying attention to the boy's general orientation of his head, didn't take much notice that when Peter said "your" he pretty much said "That pretty girl in that dress that sooooo cuuuu-"

Marco shoved his large bag into Peter's chest. It probably didn't even unbalance him, if he was a Mechanized Body, but it kept his arms full.

"Sure, lead us, _Susan_."

Thus it was that Peter led the way, with Marco very much in between him and Angelica, with none of them properly introduced yet, until they all found themselves outside, with the Guv'na stepping out of the car to shake hands.

"Marco, am I correct?"

"That's right."

"Welcome to London, Marc, everyone calls me Brick Top. We'll be your guide for this week, and I assure you that, everything bad you 'eard about this place... is probably true."

* * *

The rain frittered off to a lighter drizzle, but it still wasn't consoling Marco any, who was crammed into the backseat of the car with Angelica, while Peter and Brick Top took the front. It was already a deep night, cars whirring around streets and leaving bright trails of light.

"So, lookin' for a gun runner in the midst of London, are ya? I won't call it a needle in a haystack, but I'll say it's pretty fuckin' close." Brick Top was in the midst of explaining, while Peter turned around from his shotgun seat to cheerfully add in.

"You don't exactly find train yards or docks in the middle of the city, either, so what got you blokes thinking the guns were being run from all the way out here?"

The girl, of which Peter still hadn't learned the name of yet, spoke up, "Um... well... you see, the briefing said the way they concealed the guns were special..."

"Oh, how?" Peter, his interest piqued, was standing on his knees to turn completely back to the occupants of the backseat.

"They had high quality guns disassembled and hidden amongst brands of alcohol made in London..."

Brick Top snorted, "Is that fuckin' it? No wonder they asked us to baby sit you two while you were 'ere!"

Marco, somewhat slighted at the idea of being "Baby Sat", asked why. Peter answered again.

"You see, there has been some fishy smuggling going on here in London, that me and Guv'na were checking out until we were told to show London to you two. Guess we were chasing the same rope from different ends, huh?"

Angelica hummed in surprise, "Ooh."

"Say, missus, what's your name anyways? I said I was Peter."

"Angelica."

Oh, wasn't she cute with that Italian flavored English, so exotic!

Peter grinned, "Angelica, uh? I can call you Angie right? How much English you know anyways? While you're 'ere, you want me to teach you any? After all, some things I bet you only learn best with first hand experience-"

Marco practically choked. How dare this brat try to move so fast with Angelica, he ought to-

Brick Top was faster, grabbing the back of his charge's pants and throwing him back into a proper use of the seat, "Stop sticking your arse up, Pete. I swear, last thing I need is for some copper to be thinking you were mooning 'im!"

"Y-yes, Guv'na..."

* * *

They checked them themselves into a Holiday Inn. It was probably better to do an operation out of a temporary shack. The adults would go into another room to talk things over, leaving Peter and Angelica with another. Brick Top left a stern warning.

"Now listen 'ere, boy. I know you're a young man and all that, and I see you got your fancies. But I find you thinking with your Jacobs, God 'elp you, I'll fuckin' give you an Mexican Necktie like you won't believe. You got me, Pete?"

"Come on, Guv'na, you think I'd treat a lady like that?" Peter whined.

Brick Top seemed to give this wide eyed look of indignation, before responding, "Do you really want to know the answer to that, Pete?"

"...Never mind, Guv'na, I was being unnecessarily rude." Peter backed away, hands raised.

"Good! Now get some rest. I'm gonna call and get us some of your usual pieces tomorrow, and for God's sake, I better see them used."

With that, Brick Top shut the door the commune with Marco. Angelica hovered near by.

"What's a Mexican Necktie?"

"Uh, You don't wanna know. It involves a knife and your tongue..."

Entering their room, the two shucked off their shoes and bounded onto their separate beds, sighing in relaxation, while Angie clicked through the TV.

"Long day, 'uh, Angie?"

"Hmmm..." Angie yawned.

"So Angie, uh, what you figure of your place, now you got your taste of England? Or England, seeing that you live over there mainly? Italy, I mean."

Angie shrugged, digging herself under some blankets, "I guess I like home more... it's warmer... and less rain..."

"I figure that... say, Angie, you figure I'd be able to see Italy, one day? You got buddies over at your place?"

"I don't see why not... and I have friends. They're very nice people."

"Really?"

"What, don't you have friends?"

"Not really. Guv'na and me are always running around England, shootin' someone, and the other kids at my place don't warm up to me well. I'm too much of a smart ass, see? Even if the Guv'na smacks me some at times, it's not like he's going to whack a new personality into me..."

Peter sighed. The bed was actually quite good.

"Hey, Peter..."

"Hmm?"

"Could you really teach me English?" Angie asked quite sincerely, her palms pressed against each other in front of her face.

"Uh... I guess... what you want?"

"Like, any cool phrases I can use...?"

"Hmm... maybe random like... 'Pull up yer socks!'... got it from a cop movie, you see."

"What's that mean...?"

"Well, what you have to do to pull up your socks...?"

The two conversed away a few hours into the night, before they both nodded off in mid-sentence, the lamps still on, the TV programs still blathering away like the rain outside.

* * *

The next day, Brick Top's car had been replaced with another, with a heavier chassis, and a considerably full trunk. Brick Top consoled Marco ("Don't get your fuckin' bloomers in a knot, mate."), insisting this was expected, given the few phone calls he made over the course of the night.

They all piled into the SUV, and drove round in the gray morning of London, discussing.

Marco, again in the back with his girl, reached forward slightly to ask Brick Top, "So you've talked to everyone you knew?"

"Every fuckin' last one of them. They don't know how them guns are getting into the drinks."

Peter mulled this over, before turning to his Handler, "Hold up, Guv'na, we haven't talked to Mullet yet."

Brick Top snorted loudly, "Mullet wouldn't know his way to the fuckin' loo. When was the last time Mullet knew anything useful?"

"Mullet?"

Peter turned back to Angie, who had asked, "Mullet's a mate of mine-"

"-Who's a skinny useless wanker-" Came Brick Top from the left.

"-Who on occasion, got something useful to say-"

"-Excluding situations revolving around international crises involving arms shipments-"

"-Touche, a bloke like hims on the bottom of the barrel, maybe underneath the barrel, but hey, you never know-"

"-Oh, I fuckin' know that Mullet won't say anything we don't know anyway, but if it makes you happy, be my guest."

"That's the spirit, Guv'na-"

"Say another word, Pete, I'll fuckin' drip dry you."

The rest of the ride went in silence, Marco and Angelica awkwardly watching their tour guides lead them down the streets.

* * *

"Guv'na, there he is..." Pete pointed at his window, fingering out a skinny man in a black suit up on the sidewalks ahead.

"Alright then, we've found him. Now what?"

"Ask him nicely, and then ask him... not nice, Guv'na?"

"This is your stupid ass idea, Peter, you do it."

"I would, if you'll drive the car for me."

"You're givin' me orders, Pete?"

"I'm just needing your 'elp, Guv'na."

"Can you two stop arguing so we can get a move on?" Marco groaned from the back. The two looked back, looked at each other, and shrugged.

"Fine." Brick Top snorted.

"Peter, what are you going to do?" Angelica asked, curiously. He grinned back.

"Just bein' a cheek."

As it were, the car stopped beside the skinny Brit, Peter craning his neck and shoulder out.

"Morning, Mullet."

The thinnish face turned, and then paled at the sight of Peter, and tried to still himself to try and work up some smooth talk that he used on the ladies (with no success).

"Uh... how you doin' Peter, Brick Top, you alright mate?"

"Hmm... nice tie..."

"H-Heard you weren't about that much, Pete!"

The boy shrugged, "What do you know? Still warm, the blood that courses through my veins, unlike you, Mullet."

Mullet tried to grin that away, while Peter looked down. "...What's that?"

"That's me pants, Pete, I thought you were-"

"Not that... this!"

Before the skinny man could protest, Peter's arm reached out and pulled out a Glock. Mullet could do little more than hold his hands out defensively and pleadingly while Peter inspected it.

"What the hell is this, Mullet?"

"I-it's me protection-"

Peter snorted, "From what? Ze Germans? What's stopping it from blowing your bullocks off every time you sit down?"

Brick Top lowered his head to see Mullet and talk past his kid, "What I wanna know is, where'd you get that piece? That's not something you'd find in any bottle of pop, now, is it?"

Mullet smiled, "Heh, do me a favor, Brick Top-"

"Oh, I'll do you a favor. I'll not have Petey here bash the living fuck outta you in front of all your girlfriends 'ere."

Mullet stopped smiling, and closed in on the car door, trying to negotiate.

"Gotta make it worth my while, mate. Jesus, you know how it is, Pete, Brick-woaugh-!"

Being too close to Peter, the boy merely grabbed Mullet by his brand new tie, and pulled his head in through the open window, the other hand calmly pressing up on the window button, causing the pane of glass to slide up and catch Mullet's neck, clamping the unfortunate bottom feeder's neck against glass and the top of the car door, while he made some hysterical giggles.

"Comfortable, Mullet? Seems sadly ironic that it was your tie that got you into this pickle,"Brick Top sneered, while he turned the keys of his car, engine humming again, "Now, you take all the time you need, boy..."

The car started a slow glide down the sideway, Mullet squealing while his body outside the car began to job after his trapped head, "Whagd the fugk you doin', maghn!?"

"Driving down the street the street with your head stuck in that window there, what the fuck do you think I'm doing, you pin-ass?"

"Slowhghdown..."

Peter winced, "Have you been using dog shit for toothpaste?"

"Sloowghdown, slughdown!" Mullet was trying to scream. Marco watched with folded arms, vaguely interested, while Angelica was all eyes.

"I don't feel like slowin' down, mate. In fact, I think I'll speed up." Brick Top duly replied, his foot pressing down on the gas pedal slightly, forcing Mullet to break into a half run.

"Petey, you wanna play some tune for our guests? I've a feelin' they might be bored."

Peter slotted a Madonna CD in, Lucky Star popping up. The boy turned to Mullet's head that was gasping and choking.

"By the way, Mullet. You mind actually telling me where this piece came from? I'm kinda interested myself."

"Ghhghackwas..."

"Yes, Mullet?"

"Gotghch it outgch the bacghdoor from a blakgchuy in a pawnshop on Smith Stcghreet!"

"You better not be telling us porky pies, Mullet." Brick Top said, off hand.

"I'm telling you! I got it cghfucking from the pawnshop on fugchking Smith Street!"

Peter turned to Brick Top with a shrug and a glint in his eyes. Brick Top went back to looking at the streets.

"Not bad, Peter, not bad at all."

Angelica poked Peter's shoulder.

"Yeah, Angie?"

"You're really good!"

"Really? Thanks!"

"But... are we taking him with us?" Angie innocently asked, pointing to Mullet's head.

Peter shrugged, and pushed down on the window buttons, and in a few seconds, Mullet was screaming as he fell out the car.

* * *

A car was parked in front of a pawnshop on Smith Street. Only two aged men sat in it, waiting somewhat patiently.

Inside, however...

"What the fuck? Are you telling me this is a fucking robbery by two tots?" Was all the African American, named Sol, could say at the sight of Angelica and her Steyer M-1A pointed at his head through the cheap security grills. He originally laughed it off, until he saw Angie pull back on the slide, letting the very audible sound of a very real .40 S&W bullet hitting the tiled floor echo through the empty anteroom.

Nearby, Peter was wrenching open a door into the office by sheer strength, armed in one hand with the Glock he had pulled off Mullet earlier.

"Not exactly, mate. More of an interrogation."

"By two fucking tots!?"

Sol was still in disbelief, but still very cooperative at the sight of the two guns, while his face was pushed into a table, a Glock pressed against his face, and a hand holding him down by the neck. Angie also had her gun trained on the man.

"Now, let me lay this out straight. Some wanker's been illegally pouring guns into the world market from London, and I've found a gun that isn't supposed to be found from your average loser. So this man's selling them domestically as well, and the way things point, your shop's being used as a front, right?"

Sol mulled it over for a few second, before nodding as best as he could, given his face was pressed into an office table.

"You mind tellin' me who's the bloke who paid you?"

"Uh... well... it was a Russian."

"A Russian?" Angelica murmured.

"Well, to be technical, he's an Uzbekistanian, but..."

Peter brow beat the statement, while turning to Angie, "Uzbekistanian? I've had my share of those sneaky Russian dogs."

Angie again, "Could you give us a name?"

"Yurinov..." The Glock pressed itself harder into Sol's face, "-Boris!"

Peter's eyes widened, in surprise, "You mean... Boris the Blade?"

"Yeah."

"As in... Boris the Bullet Dodger!?"

Sol's head shook. Angelica looked confused.

"Why do they call him the Bullet Dodger...?"

Peter returned a strange look, "...Because he dodges bullets, Angie..."

* * *

"Boris? As in, Boris the Blade?"

"Yes, Guv'na."

"As in, Boris the Bullet Dodger?"

"Yes, Guv'na."

"Well fuck me sideways. I bet that mustached prick is laughing at us. But not for long." Brick Top chortled, as the four of them were driving again. This time, since they were in a rush, Angelica had shoved herself into the front seat, while Peter was now right behind her in the back.

Marco frowned, "Who is he?"

"He's a Russian, o' course. Officially, he's a drink distiller, but he's always been causing trouble in some way or another with the local bobbies. Looks like he finally trying to dig deeper and smuggling guns with his drinks now, is he?"

Peter glibly added, "He's a horrible pervert, too. He's practically twenty-four seven in a Gentleman's Club, or having ladies come over to his place for coffee."

Angie was curious and looked back, "Coffee...?"

"You know, Angie? Cream and Sugar?"

"Oh, shut up, Peter. Your innuendos make me wanna throw up." Brick Top spat back.

Marco stopped his scathing look at Peter, who wasn't really caring or noticing, and turned back to British Handler, "So now what?"

"I figure, we rest up for today, mate. I've gotta make a call to my superiors and let them rubber stamp our green light on whacking that Russian. We'll probably do it properly tomorrow night."

* * *

It was Wednesday night. In the squalors of London, a car was parked outside a topless bar that a certain Russian frequented, almost all day, heavy bass reverberating through air, while pink and red lights reflected off the roof. Inside, Angie sat shotgun, and Peter in the back.

Both waited for their Handlers to return, with a positive ID on the presence and location of Boris the Blade.

Meanwhile, Angelica loaded shells into the magazines for her TMP. Peter yawned. The woes of waiting.

"Peter?"

"Hmmm?"

"Shouldn't you check your guns...?"

"Don't worry 'bout me, Angie. I got meself something for this occasion."

"What?"

Peter reached under his seat and unearthed a SPAS-12, though with the barrel shortened practically all the way to the action pump. He grinned in glee.

"...What's that?"

"Heh, this, is a shotgun, Angie!"

Angie spluttered, "It's an anti-aircraft gun, Peter!"

"Well I wanted to raise some pulses, didn't I?"

"You'll raise hell, never mind pulses!"

"You got a problem with my shooter, Angie?"

"It's too big!"

"Whad do you mean, it's too big? It's not like the hallways in there are teeny-tiny, is it?"

"Why not that one, Peter?"

Angelica pointed to another shotgun, a sawed down, double barrel, break top, with the shoulder stock also missing, instead a cloth strap and clip had been screwed on over the rough edge where the stock had been snapped off, allowing one to carry it under the arm and under a jacket. A styling known commonly as a "Lupara", Italian for "Wolf Shot".

"The Lupara? Are you insane? There could be some five men, plus Boris in there. With guns. This thing fires twice. That's it. That's not even the majority of the blokes!"

"Well, you have me!"

"You're comin' up the fuckin' fire escape, Angie. How the hell am I supposed to expect your arrival?

Angelica pouted childishly, "Don't you trust me?"

At that look, man as he was, Peter's argument deflated, "W-well o'course I do, Angie-"

A knock at the window, and Brick Top's large visage was on the other side.

"I 'ope this is not a bad moment." He said, while Peter drew down his window.

"Nothing important, anyways, Guv'na. Angie here's just saying I ought not to waving around the Spas, cause she think's it's like waving around an Ack-Ack in the Cu Chi tunnels. What'd you figure Guv'na? Lupara or Spas?"

"Lupara. The last thing I need for you to do is accidentally having you drop your piece in front of the lady up there, and having her scream her head off about World War Three starting before you're ready. You got me?"

"Yes, sir."

"As for you miss, it's time for you to meet up with your old man."

"Oh. Alright. Be careful, Peter?"

Peter shrugged, and grinned, "Relax, you said you'll be there in time, right?"

"Right."

* * *

Peter and Brick Top took the service elevator inside the apartment, while the boy did his best to bundle more of his leather jacket over his black blazer, hiding the fattish bulge that came out on one side.

"Hey, Guv'na?"

"What?"

"You think I'll see Italy one day? Get some sun and nice company for a change?"

"...Are you seriously thinking of fancying that Italian lass?"

"Well... mhgm..."

"...In the quiet words of the Virgin Mary... Come Again?"

Peter shrugged, "Well, I figure we're hit it off so well..."

Brick Top stared at Peter for a good few seconds.

"Petey, assuming that I wasn't of the opinion that you have said, by far, the stupidest fuckin' thing that's ever come out of your mouth since I got you, you'd still have to deal with her Handler, who'd probably tear your neck off before you start playing Romeo, and even if he didn't and you landed in Italy and 'ad a butcher's, I think you'd still get yourself killed in some 'orribly stupid manner, such as accidentally stabbing yourself in the eye with a fork, which means I'd have to write up the paperwork dealing with your disposal, as well as a request for a new kid, and that's the last thing I need to deal with right now."

"...So you're saying I can't go?"

"No, Petey, you can't."

"...I can still write her letters, though, Guv'na? I hear long-distance relationships have a large potential to be right roman-"

"Petey, why the 'ell are we having this conversation, again? You're about to be killing a Russian with a very, very, messy gun. And remember, be thorough with yer job- you're not a simple fucking tea leaf."

The elevator chimed their floor.

* * *

The hallway into personal sitting rooms had been cleared out Boris' men. Two men stood stolidly outside a closed door, sounds of heavy accent and light (acted) giggling wafting through with the smell of alcohol. A room adjacent to it was empty, door open with three more guards, wasting time playing cards, watching TV, and smoking. All of them carried handguns, one of them had themselves a MAC-10, and another had a whole shotgun bundled up in a tube case.

Peter poked his head around the corridor, with it's sickeningly pink plastering and revolving colored lights, yellow, purple, ugh.

Too far to shoot with the Lupara. Well, this was going to get messy.

Shrugging, he strode down the hall rather quickly, making sure to keep his jacket just open enough...

"Oi, what the fuck's a tyke like you doin' 'ere?" One of the men at the door stopped Peter as he approached.

Peter began a tirade, "Come on, I'm just passing through. I'm just looking for a little action-"

"Fuck off, action. If you wantin' action, go to your mother and-"

Peter had already reached into his jacket with a quiet "click" before the strap went free and Peter pointed one barrel into the man's center. Crack-Pow, and he jerked back into the wall, before falling onto the floor to paint it red with his chest.

"Son of a-" The other man tried to say, reaching for his gun. Crack-Pow. He fell over, holding his stomach.

By then, the other three men were already out, swearing and pointing their guns, while Peter dove for an empty room, slamming the door open, while bits of wood and plaster shattered about him. Rolling away from the open door and behind a wall mounted sofa, Peter snapped open his shotgun, replacing the two smoking shells that had spilled out.

"Oh, come off it..." He muttered, seeing the wall he was hiding behind falling apart fairly quickly.

As the men kept their fire up, chewing Peter's room. A half dressed Boris, bushy-browed with a revolver in his hand, shouted to his men in a heavy accent to hoof it. The small party raced down the hall, the men doing their best to cover for their boss. Peter swore.

"...The fuck's Angie doin...?"

Despite that, he jumped to his feet after them.

Boris smashed into the door, trying to shove it open, was just the slightest slow as Peter caught up. Two of the men in front raised their guns to fend of the boy.

Peter braced himself and his much faster trigger finger. In two successive blows sent into the floor, their fronts all jumbled up.

That left Boris, and one other.

And Peter with an empty shooter.

And they pointed their guns at him.

"Bugge-"

Boris fired his fancy revolver, scoring himself a huge gout of blood into Peter's left side, red running down his clean white shirt. Peter winced, buckled over, gasped... and stood up. Boris' eyes widened, before shoving his guard out of the way to fire again into Peter, who caught the bullet with his chest with as much enthusiasm.

"Mother... I thought you Russians knew how to shoot-"

Boris raged, and fired thrice, shoving Peter into a wall, before he uneasily got to his feet, snorting.

"Why won't you DIE!?"

"Fuck off-"

The sixth when straight for the heart. That got Peter to his knees, wheezing as blood poured freely.

Boris growled, and quickly went back to the worrying at the creaky fire exit-

"...Oh, you're in trouble now..."

Boris and his guard turned back, horrified to see Peter still looking at them, from his knees, while he sneered with mouth running red from his chin. A deft snap opened up his Lupara. But injured as he was, Peter was unreasonably unprepared for the last guard to unearth his own pump-action piece, and jamming it into Peter's face, growling.

"You're fucking tough bastard, but you can't take this to the face before you've reloaded!"

Of course, Peter was more than willing to put that claim to the test, if he hadn't heard Angelica's voice.

"_Peter...?"_

"Angie? Where the fuck you've-"

_"PUT YOUR SOCKS UP!"_

Peter's eyes widened in shock, before he dove to the ground, much to the confusion of the remaining two targets.

Their confusion, along with their lives, were quickly cut short, when the fire exit door showered Boris and his buddy with bullets, from the outside in, with the unmistakable clack-clack-clack of a silenced TMP.

Silence, dust and gunpowder in the air, Peter and some corpses on the ground. Angelica bursting through the door.

"P-PETER!"

"Hmm, hun?"

"Are you okay!?"

"Oh, no worries, just a lil' flesh wound, but I'm good..." As if attempting to prove this, Peter painfully rolled onto his back and ducked his hands behind his head in a charming smile. Of course the blood didn't help the image.

Angelica screamed.

* * *

_... Now, like I keep telling you, none of that business was your fault. It's just that stairs are probably scientifically proven to be longer to scale up, than taking an elevator. Besides, you bagged old Boris before he got me, so that's all that matters._

_Besides, I've got a story to tell you and me mates over here after that all happened. Governor decided to have the bullets in me melted down and alloyed into my new ribs when they replaced it. Bit of a trophy thing, you see._

_Well, tell me how Italy is if you ever reply, Angie. Dunno if I'll ever get a chance to see it and your mates. Still, chin up and hope for the best and all that._

_Well, have to be going now. Work and all that._

_With my sincerity, Angie,_

_-Peter_

Angelica smiled, reading of her friend far away, on an open bench. Wasn't it fun to hear from Peter?

"He's funny..." She murmured.

"Who's funny?"

Angelica snapped back to reality with a hurried scrabbling after her papers. Treila seemed amused, having snuck up on her friend from behind.

"N-nothing!"

"Come on! You got a letter from somebody? Who?"

"It's nothing, really!"

"Really...? Then you wouldn't mind me seeing it?"

"See what?"

"Hey, 'Etta, Angie got a letter from somebody. She won't say from who, though."

"Really?"

"It's not important, you two!"

"Really..."

Morning over Italy as more girls piled onto Angelica, trying to tease the secret out of her.

* * *

**That's how Girls make friends with Lads.**

**Shell Snatcher: End**

* * *

A/N: Had an OC idea, wanted to write it down. Also figured I might as well try and jump onto the bandwagon. Angie needed a significant other, either way.

I don't have a British Agency, per say. Just assume that Peter's from Radaphyte's organization. Or something. Yeah.

Cheers to GaiaCleaver for being my beta and fitting the British slang.


End file.
